


By the Fire

by CoyToy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoyToy/pseuds/CoyToy
Summary: On a rare instance of shore leave, the Freelancers travel out to an island for the weekend for a little R&R on the beach. Written as part of the 2017 RvB Bingo Wars.





	

Carolina leaned back onto the railing, closing her eyes and breathing in rhythm to the rocking of the ferry. Somewhere, a bird screeched unceremoniously, while the boat’s horns rumbled in anticipation of arrival. With another deep breath of fresh air, Carolina opened her eyes just in time to catch York sneaking up on Wash, armed with an inflated beach ball; the younger Freelancer never saw it coming, and as the ball hit him square in the head, his drink tumbled onto the floor, swirly straw and all.

Laughing at his own work, York only received a pity chuckle from North before the latter bent down to help Wash with the mess. “What? Oh, come on, that was hilarious.”

“Only if you’re twelve,” South shot back from her spot on the upper deck. She folded her arms and leaned over the side. “That was stupid.”

The green form of Delta appeared over York’s shoulder. “I agree with Agent South’s assessment. That practical joke was not as much of a joke as indicated by your past actions, and seems to be less elaborate as well.”

“Thanks for the pick-me-up, D,” York sighed, already replacing his disgrace with his thousand-watt smile.

Thankfully, the island had finally come into sight, a mass of green trees and red roofs and white beaches just begging to be explored. They only had three days before they were due back on the Mother of Invention, but CT planned to cover every hiking trail, York had already prepped for his cave expeditions, and Florida had brought enough steaks to barbecue for the entire island.

All Carolina wanted was to stretch her cyan-colored blanket over the sand, throw on a pair of matching sunglasses, and fall asleep under the warm sun. The only other plan in her itinerary was a trip to the famous ice cream place the Dakota twins swore tasted like frozen marshmallows.

The ferry pulled up to the dock within minutes. Carolina grabbed her bag and tossed it over the shoulder, silently doing a headcount as she watched her teammates disembark. The last to come off were CT and Maine, who had saddled themselves with the boxes of booze that were apparently essential to the trip; Connie was holding one to her chest, while Maine was balancing one on each shoulder. Only once they were safe on the dock, every can of beer intact, did Carolina join them.

“Okay, I know it’s not tourist season and all, but there is really _no one_ here,” Wash marveled as he walked up the street, peering into the windows of little shops that promised quirky objects and souvenirs nobody wanted. “No one” was a stretch – a car drove by every now and then, and some teenage locals hung around an arcade that had obviously seen better years – but it was probably only a minute fraction of the crowds during the full-swing of summer.

“Well, then we’re gonna have the beach almost entirely to ourselves,” North noted. He placed his hands on his hips and breathed in the island air. “That’s why we would always come this time of the year when we were kids.”

“It does have its downsides, though,” South added. “The mini-golf place is always closed. So are most of the restaurants, though the greasy seafood shack is probably open.”

“But it’s a great time of year for _waves_.” Theta popped up at North’s side, clutching a surf board to his side.

“Ha, we’ll see buddy,” North answered. “I hear Florida is a good surfer.”

Florida beamed. “I can teach you a trick or two when I take Reggie out for a splash,” he said, wrapping an arm around Wyoming. “The more, the merrier.”

Carolina hid her smile behind her hand; the image of Wyoming’s pompous ass trying to surf was going to be a sight.

“So let’s all stop talking, and start doing,” CT insisted, taking off with South in the direction of the boardwalk.

As Carolina and the team followed, York fell in step beside her. “So what are your plans, Lina? Some R&R? Maybe a little swimming? Exploring?”

“York, I’ve told you – beach, napping, maybe some reading. This is gonna be a nice rest for me, especially because my legs are still a little cramped from that last mission because a certain _someone_ needed extra help taking out his fair share of guards.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair, fair. Any way I could convince you to play a round at the arcade?” He motioned towards the run-down machines across the street. “I play a _mean_ game of ski ball,” he added in a cocky tone.

Carolina cracked a smile. “Oh, _do_ you now?”

All traces of smugness disappeared from his features. “Um, no, not at all, actually. I normally end up chucking the balls and hoping for the best. However, I was the Ms. Pac-Man champion when I was a kid. Not the regular Pac-Man – I sucked at that – just Ms. Pac-Man.”

Her grin threatened to turn into a laugh. “Well, you know I can’t turn down a challenge.” He responded by bumping his shoulder into hers, the backs of their hands brushing, burning her skin in awareness. She allowed him to press his hand into hers, knuckle to knuckle, though she wasn’t expecting his fingers to wrap around her own in what was probably the most awkward hand-holding position ever. Of all time.

The boardwalk’s path brought them to a steep set of wooden stairs leading to the beach. She released York’s hand in favor of the railing, staring out over the ocean as she descended the steps. Glittering under the afternoon sun, and bluer than… She glanced back at York, who smiled at her before she turned her attention forwards. Those waves – dark and roaring. Theta was going to be thrilled by the surfing potential.

At the bottom of the hill, where grass met sand, lay a row of green huts that would be home for the weekend. North and South journeyed to the hut where the owner lived before returning with a handful of keys. “North and York…Maine and Wash…Me and CT…Florida and Wyoming…and Carolina, you lucky bitch,” South teased as she handed Carolina a single brass key.

“Excuse you, South, but one of us had to be on their own, so I just took one for the team,” she responded with a smirk.

“And sharing a room with me isn’t _that_ bad,” CT said, playfully punching her girlfriend in the arm. “ _You’re_ the one who snores.” Carolina watched with content as they bickered their way to their hut, laughing as they wrapped their arms around one another’s shoulders.

Her own hut was situated between Maine and Wash’s, and Florida and Wyoming’s. She stuck the key in the lock and turned, pushing with her shoulder as the door groaned, scraping on the paint-worn floor. The hut was tinier than it looked on the outside, barely containing two cots and a nightstand. She reckoned the elevator on the MOI was bigger, but it would do for the next three days. Dumping her bag on the spare bed, she fished out her cyan-colored towel and black one-piece bathing suit that she changed into once the curtains were closed.

She cautiously stepped out of the hut and back into the sunlight, glad for the protection of her sunglasses as the sun began its descent onto the horizon. Her bare feet enjoyed the feel of the warm sand, free from the sharpness of shells and broken glass. She padded over to where Wash and Maine were assembling rocks and driftwood. “Getting a fire going?”

Maine grunted in affirmation, while Wash added, “Can’t have a beach party without a fire, right?”

“If you say so,” she breathed. She laid out her towel and dropped her book on top, but temporarily abandoned both as she helped Maine arrange the rocks in a circle. Wash then began to prop his sticks in a tee-pee fashion.

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” he murmured. “My dad showed me a dozen times, but I guess it didn’t stick.” He finally got it right, creating a strong foundation from the driftwood.

“Need a light?” Carolina looked up to see York standing over them, a more-than-familiar silver lighter in his hand. She stared at it as it lay in his open palm, rereading the word “ _Errera_ ” emblazoned on the side over and over until she remembered the purpose and took it.

“Thanks.” She flipped the lid and flicked the wheel until a flame sprang up. She offered the fire to the grass Maine had tucked under the tower of driftwood. The flames caught, growing as Wash blew into their core. It unfolded before their eyes, desperately engulfing the wood.

Carolina offered York his lighter back, but he placed his hand over hers, closing her fingers over the still-warm metal. “Keep it. It…you need it more than me. You can give it back to me later.” He left her with her book as he, Wash, and Maine joined North, South, and CT in a game of tackle-football in the water. She tried to focus on her book, diverting her attention only to take a sip from her beer, but she couldn’t help but laugh as CT launched herself into the air and landed on North, causing both to tumble into the waves.

When the sun dipped below the water, the team steered themselves back. The last to come in were Florida and Wyoming, shivering in their wetsuits, but satisfied with Wyoming’s first surfing adventure. Carolina smiled to herself as she noticed Theta hovering next to Gamma; the little guy deserved a little wave action.

York approached her wrapped in a New York Yankees towel. He presented her another beer as an offering, which she accepted and motioned for him to sit beside her. One by one, the rest gathered to huddle around the fire. Wash retrieved a bag of marshmallows from his bag, and handed them out once Connie hunted down some sticks. South and North passed the time by attempting to out-do one another in embarrassing stories about the other, until there came a time when they were obviously just making things up in a competition of dramatic storytelling. 

The hours ticked by, but as long as the fire remained strong, Florida kept the mojitos coming, and York accompanied Wyoming’s guitar with his off-key singing, no Freelancer could feel the tug of sleep.


End file.
